


and how we found the same old fears

by elizaham8957



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But also, Canon Divergent, Emotional Turmoil, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I suppose, Romance, aka the post battle scene I wish HBO would give us but that they won't, most likely, post battle of winterfell speculation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 08:12:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18567394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizaham8957/pseuds/elizaham8957
Summary: The pale sunlight washes over the towers of the keep, spreading across all of Winterfell, and bringing its inhabitants back to life. Slowly, the soldiers around her begin to move, to speak, to breathe. To live. Drogon tosses his head again, letting out an agitated growl. Dany turns her head, finally, searching her surroundings, letting her eyes glide over the dead and the survivors on her every side. She recognizes faces of the living and faces of the dead, her heart squeezing a bit more with every realization, but there is someone she is looking for specifically, she knows, without even thinking. She searches for him intrinsically, half terrified of what she’ll find.





	and how we found the same old fears

**Author's Note:**

> Guess whose writer's block has been defeated by the power of Jonerys? That's right, it's this bitch 
> 
> Anyways I have a lot of Feelings about last night's episode and everything left unsaid between Jon and Dany and this kinda just came out. Will we get anything like this on the show? Probably not. But god I really hope we do. I would love to know what you think of this! 
> 
> I'm stilesssolo on tumblr and twitter if you wanna chat. Enjoy!

There is an eerie silence that falls over everything as the sun rises. 

The air is cold and still as the sun peeks over the horizon, the weak morning light chasing away the shadows of the night— and with it, the dead. 

Dany inhales, watching them go, retreat back to the snowy expanse of whatever lies north of Winterfell. Thousands fell in the fight, and probably about a dozen walkers with them, but it is not enough. The Night King still lives, and thousands of their  _ own  _ fell as well. Her chest clenches at the thought of all the bodies decorating the ground, wights as well as their own men. 

They fought with everything they had, and still it was not enough. 

The sun continues to rise behind her, stretching across the plains of Winterfell. The once pristine white snow is dark with blood and soot, scarred from trenches and streams of fire from her children. Bodies still burn, as do some of the towers in the keep. She watches as the light stretches across it all, chasing the last stragglers of the Army of the Dead as they retreat, to regroup. To strike again, and for good this time. 

Dany is not entirely certain that the battle they fought can be counted as a victory. She is not particularly sure of the reason that the dead all suddenly stopped fighting, turning almost in sync and retreating, following after their King. But there is no doubt in her mind that if the dead had not suddenly decided to leave, they would not have lived to see the next day. 

It seems that the entire North, their entire army, is frozen in time as the dead slip back into the snow, disappearing into the trees. Nothing moves, nothing breathes, nothing dares to make a sound. The only thing that shows any passage of time at all is the steady rise of the sun behind them, its pale, weak light washing over the utter wreckage before her. 

Drogon shifts below her, pawing at the ground agitatedly, and Dany can hear the sorrow in his grumbles. Her heart sinks again, knowing what bothers the dragon so. She cannot look behind her, cannot see the mangled corpse of her son in the harsh morning light. She cannot lay eyes upon Viserion’s crumpled wings, his lifeless eyes, his scorched scales. 

It had taken both her on Drogon and Jon on Rhaegal to take down her hostage son, to free him from the prison that the Night King had chained him into. And while she is glad her son is finally,  _ truly  _ at rest— she does not think she can lay eyes upon him without crumbling like sand in the wind. 

The Night King no longer had a dragon, that is true. And his army has certainly suffered casualties. But it is beginning to truly sink in to Dany, like a punch to the gut, tendrils of hopelessness and despair wrapping around her and refusing to let go. This may not be a war they can win. 

The pale sunlight washes over the towers of the keep, spreading across all of Winterfell, and bringing its inhabitants back to life. Slowly, the soldiers around her begin to move, to speak, to  _ breathe.  _ To live. Drogon tosses his head again, letting out an agitated growl. Dany turns her head, finally, searching her surroundings, letting her eyes glide over the dead and the survivors on her every side. She recognizes faces of the living and faces of the dead, her heart squeezing a bit more with every realization, but there is someone she is looking for specifically, she knows, without even thinking. She searches for him intrinsically, half terrified of what she’ll find. 

She doesn’t have to search long. 

With a great rush of wings, Rhaegal lands on the opposite side of the field, tossing his head as his wings fold in, talons digging into the scorched earth. And on his back, still, is his rider. 

Dany exhales suddenly, not realizing how anxious her heart had been until she can see he is  _ alive.  _ He is too far away for her to truly see clearly, but his head snaps about, searching the field for the same thing she had been looking for— reassurance. He freezes when his head turns towards hers, and she cannot truly make out his face, but she imagines the look of relief on it mirrors her own. 

Almost trancelike, she dismounts Drogon, her son immediately turning to lick at the wounds he had sustained from his resurrected brother. She stands there for a moment, watching Jon atop Rhaegal, and cannot help but think it almost comical that the dragon she named for her brother is now ridden by his son. 

His  _ son.  _

Jon’s words from the crypt still stew in her mind, swirling and twisting and refusing to settle, to allow her to make sense of them. It seems completely  _ impossible,  _ some ridiculous scheme invented with no merit to it, but at the same time, Dany knows it to be true. For who other than a Targaryen would elicit such reactions from Drogon and Rhaegal? Who would her sons allow to touch them, ride them, other than one of their own? And who would love her, the last dragon, if not another dragon himself? 

And that is also true. Every word she spoke to Sansa earlier, she meant. She loves Jon, more than she ever thought she could love anyone. And knowing that he is the true heir to the Iron Throne, the birthright she has worked her entire  _ life  _ to reclaim, makes her feel as if the very fabric of her reality is being torn apart. 

Her eyes remain locked on him as he dismounts Rhaegal, standing beaten and bloodied next to her son. Even across the field, lengths and lengths between them, she can feel the intensity of his stare. Can sense every emotion in those lovely eyes of his. 

And so Dany starts walking. 

She picks her way through the ruins of the battlefield with determination, her eyes fixed on Jon and only Jon. Her heart hammers in her chest as he begins to walk too, the distance between them seeming impossibly long. 

They did not exactly leave things well off in the crypts, she knows, when he told her of his true heritage. She had felt so angry in that moment, so betrayed. Not necessarily from him— she knows Jon would never conspire to overthrow her, go behind her back to steal her power. She meant what she had told his sister— he is true to his word, and she trusts him unconditionally. She knows he is too honorable to ever scheme against her. No, she had felt more betrayed by the world, by the gods and the universe— for now that she is so close to claiming the Iron Throne, the thing she has fought for her entire  _ life  _ just within reach _ ,  _ she discovers her right to it is not real. 

It had felt cruel, that she had stopped her conquest for the Throne, forgotten her birthright to defend the North, only to find out that their king is the one who was truly born to rule the Seven Kingdoms. To discover that something she had spent her whole life thinking was  _ hers  _ is not really something she can rightfully lay claim to. She had worked so hard, sacrificed so much for the Iron Throne. And now, learning this truth— it is no longer hers to take. 

But now, as she walks among the bodies of the dead, those who fell fighting for the living, she realizes what the Iron Throne is. She had wanted to claim it because it is her legacy. It is hers by birthright, for her to take. It is a connection to her family, to her heritage, to her home. 

_ Home.  _ That is all Dany really wants, all she’s ever really wanted, she thinks. Somewhere to belong. She has always thought that would be the Seven Kingdoms. She would be their queen, and they would be hers as she would be theirs. She would make the world a better place, and the Iron Throne would be the home that she had sought all her life. A place that she could make better, make her own. 

But as she walks, as the distance shrinks between her and Jon— that is when it hits her. She does not need the Iron Throne anymore. She still  _ wants  _ it, but she does not need it for all of those reasons. She doesn’t need it to be her home anymore, because she has already found a home. In Jon’s arms, wrapped around her at night. In the warmth of his eyes when they meet hers, the heat of his kisses, the velvety sound of her name on his lips. For Jon has given her a place to belong, a place where she matters.  _ He  _ is her home. 

Her heart thunders at the realization, the feeling of belonging that clings to her, making her vision blur with tears. She begins to run, unable to bear the distance between them, and she sees the man before her do the same, the two of them rushing towards each other like nothing else in the world matters. 

Dany is almost sure nothing else does. 

The ruins on either side of her fade out, the bodies and scorched earth disappearing from her vision. All she can see is Jon, rushing towards her, running and breathing and  _ alive.  _ And it is all she can find in herself to care about, that he is still here. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ she reaches him, her legs burning and chest heaving. There is no hesitation in his eyes, none of the fearful reservation he had in the crypts before, all caution gone. His face is bloodied and his hair is a  _ mess,  _ raven curls escaping from his tie, but Dany does not care one bit. She is sure she looks just as frightful, her coat singed and her braids fraying. All she can think is to throw her arms around his neck, wrap herself around him until she can hear the beating of his heart, reassuring her that he still lives. His arms immediately circle her, and he buries his face in her shoulder, into the fur of her coat there. His hands scrabble at her waist, trying to find purchase, to pull her as close as possible into him. 

“Thank the gods,” she whispers into his skin, one of her hands twisting through the hair at the base of his neck, clinging to him like he will fade into smoke if she lets go. She doesn’t necessarily believe in any gods, after everything she’s seen and suffered, but if there is anything out there at all that helped keep Jon alive, she is grateful. 

“Dany,” he breathes, pulling back, a hand coming to cup her face. She sinks into the weight of his palm, eyes locked on his. She does not think anything in the world could make her look away from his lovely eyes at this moment.

“I don’t want it,” he tells her, and she is confused, for a moment, heart thumping wildly. “I don’t care about my birthright. I don’t want the bloody Iron Throne. It’s yours.” He pauses, his lips parting, shaking his head slightly. His eyes are like that first night on her ship to White Harbor, when he had first come to her. There is so much emotion in them, so much left unsaid that she understands perfectly just from one look. 

“I just want you,” he says, and at that, she melts. 

She tugs at Jon’s head, pulling him down and crashing her lips to his desperately. There are thousands around to see; it is improper and unqueenly and she  _ does not care.  _ All she cares about is Jon, the feel of his lips upon hers, his tongue prying her mouth open hungrily, his hands burning into her flesh even through her thick coat. The sound of his heart pounding in her ears, perfectly in sync with her own. 

Jon tastes like blood and sweat and ash, but she is not bothered in the slightest. His teeth nip at her bottom lip possessively, and she moans into his mouth, pressing herself closer to him. There is nothing sweeter than the taste of him, the relief in knowing his heart still beats, that he is still here with her.

They pull away a moment later, breath ragged, foreheads pressed together. Her eyes are still closed, fingers tangled in his hair, and she can feel his nose nudge against hers as he presses another kiss to her lips, gentler, sweeter. 

Nothing in the world could make her let go of him right now. Not even the Iron Throne. 

“I love you,” she tells him, eyes fluttering open to meet his. They are the warmest shade of brown in the weak morning light, rich and endless in depth. Like she could fall into them forever and never crawl out. 

His mouth curls into the slightest smile, one of his hands coming up to cup her face, to smooth a loose strand of her hair back behind her ear. She turns her head to kiss his palm, and can feel the wetness gathering in her eyes, tears threatening to fall. 

They have lost so much, in this one battle. Thousands and thousands have fallen. And the dead will be back, just as strong as they were before. But staring into Jon’s eyes, into the impossibility of what she feels for him, she knows in her heart they will defeat the Night King. They will defy all odds and end him and his army once and for all, because a life, a  _ home  _ with the man in front of her is worth fighting a thousand wars for. 

“I love you too,” he whispers back to her, leaning in to kiss her again, nose nudging against hers, his lips soft and pliant. They pull apart, and he tugs her into his arms, hand cradling her head against his chest, the two of them breathing in and out, in and out, completely in sync. And even now, amidst the chaos and destruction of the battle surrounding them, Dany feels at peace.

Cersei can hang, the Red Keep can crumble, the Iron Throne can melt down. Jon is alive, and he is here, and he is hers. And there is nothing else in the world that matters to her.


End file.
